


have found wings

by live_die_be, ShadedSilveringGrey



Series: beginnings of hearts [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/live_die_be/pseuds/live_die_be, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadedSilveringGrey/pseuds/ShadedSilveringGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she is young and wary and does not yet know the ones who live in her. she is frightened and timid, and she is but only a few months old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	have found wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [im_not_a_lizard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_not_a_lizard/gifts).



> apparently this is a series now. you need not read the first part to understand this one, but it might enhance your reading experience.
> 
> for the record, this is all Liz's fault. she's a terrible, terrible enabler who thought that Consol would be a hipster stadium and i wrote this to show her how Consol is not a hipster.
> 
> also: concrit welcomed and hugely appreciated!

she is young and wary and does not yet know the ones who live in her. she is frightened and timid, and she is but only a few months old. she does not have many memories, not yet; those will come in time.

she does not remember much, only sudden consciousness, and for the first time in her existence she could _feel_.

she felt the walls and the walkways and the stairs to the seats, though at the time she did not yet know the words.

there is so much that she does not know, but she tries very hard nonetheless.

she is startled and scared when First One reaches out to her. he is the one that they call Mario, she knows. he comes to her in the dark-sky-time, kneels down on the ice and puts a palm to the surface and reaches out to her and she reaches back and—and she _lives_. he passes memories through to her, of another place, another home—of a Mother-figure he misses dearly. from Mother to Son, now Father to Daughter, he passes on affection to her because she is as much a child to him as blood.

but she keeps to the background and stays quiet. she is not sure what is allowed, or what she should do. so she stays quiet, and she watches. she listens and feels and learns. she _grows_.

she feels the ones on the ice and is comforted by the sound of their skates. she learns and listens and grows until she is no longer frightened or wary of the Souls who pass through her. they bring new memories and new feeling, and she finds that she misses them when they leave.

she realizes that she has come to love the ones who fly on her ice with blades and sticks and small black disks. then she realizes she now grasps what love is.

some nights when she is filled to the brim with Souls who laugh and sing and shout, the small black disks do not find their home in the net that belongs to them. they find themselves in the other one, and the Souls shriek and thump and the air rings cacophonous with tension and anger that frightens her.

she is young and (almost) new, and she still sometimes finds that she wishes to hide away behind her solid walls. And oh, she does when the Souls are enraged at their loss after loss.

she is hiding under stone and steel and brick when one comes to her. this one creeps in when the sky is still dark and gleams with pinpricks of light. he moves through the shadows comfortably; he doesn't turn on the lights so she does it for him, peeking out and listening to his quiet-soft sounds. he freezes for a moment in the brightness and moves on, stepping into the brightly lit locker room.

this one has skates on his shoulder and moves slowly. he lets out flickers of tired-disappointed-angry and she wants to comfort him. he's one of hers.

he laces up his skates roughly, eyes dark and narrow, watching his hands as he moves through familiar movements: he is angry at himself.

he moves out onto her ice, cold and dark, and he is small and alone on the untouched sheet. she watches him as he shoot pucks into the net. she listens to the pucks, drowsy and confused. the stick is frustrated; his grip on it is too tight, too angry.

she is young and afraid, but she wants to do wonderful things for these small beings who care so very much.

he is angry (that scares her), but she emits a wave of soothing feelings him, ebbing against the shore of his mind. it's a memory from the one who came Before but no longer exists, at least not in this world. all she has is memories and feelings and these small creatures who are hers.

this one does not react to the tide of calm-peace-love-acceptance, and she is frustrated. the one who came Before knew a great deal, and she knows next to nothing. but she _tries_.

she tries very hard, and she tries again, reaches out for his mind and brushes against it with her own.

the small one makes a strange noise and drops the stick and falls on to her ice, and she feels something bright and shining and perfect deep in her cement and steel foundations. she reaches for him again, and this time he does not jump. He does not shy away but tentatively accepts her presence until conscience blends with conscience, two colours becoming irrevocably combined into one.

he is curious and calm and not afraid. He is wide-eyed and awestruck; he sits like a young child upon her frozen surface; he is blissful and serene. he is not angry anymore, and she is happy.

he knew the one Before, but did not Know her like Mario had Known her. and as she learns his mind and his memories she knows that she is his and he is hers, because now they Know. she knows that he will stay with her until _she_ is the one who came Before.

she is young and new, and she has beloved-partner-friend-confidant, and that makes her feel okay with being young and new, because so is he. she is not afraid, not anymore.

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from a poem by Rilke:
> 
> I am, you anxious one. Don't you hear me  
> surging against you with all my senses?  
> My feelings, which have found wings, circle  
> like white birds around your face.  
> And my soul---can't you see it there  
> standing before you in a robe of silence?  
> Doesn't my springtime prayer  
> ripen in your eyes as on a tree?
> 
> If you are the dreamer, I am your dream.  
> But if you choose to be awake, I am your will  
> and become the master of all majesty  
> and round to perfect stillness like a star  
> over the far-off city of time.


End file.
